


oh lazarus, were you so afraid

by juggyjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Criminal Underground, Dark, Elements of Film Noir, F/M, Future Fic, Journalism, Slow Burn, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:14:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/juggyjones
Summary: Seven years after the events of the fatal summer in Riverdale, the gang's all scattered across the world - or so Jughead thinks, considering he hasn't talked to anyone in five years.He doesn't live a good life. When Betty finds him, he's unrecognizable - and when he tries to push her away, she's only inclined to come closer. In a world where he fights for money and is marked a failure by the society norms and her journalism career isn't off to a good start, mending old wounds and answering unspoken questions seems to be all they can do.Or, that's the plan. Until they try to get out and realize they've become integral parts of a side of society different than they're used to. Until it's not just their heads in the game and the hand that decides their fate hasn't been theirs for a long time - and all they can do now, is play.





	1. i. make it worth your while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her name passes his lips like a prayer.
> 
> “Betty.”

 

> _Oh, Lazarus, were you so afraid?_

In downtown New York, a boy brings a mug to his lips. Warm, bitter liquid rests on his tongue for few moments, as he is perfectly aware of all the eyes on him. It warms his fingers just so they wouldn’t fidget as much; he pulls up the free hand from the table and places it onto the mug, knowing everyone in the cafe is irritated by his tapping on the table.

“Want some more?”

The voice startles him; he knows it shouldn’t have, but can’t deny the coffee droplets on his shirt, too shaken to even swear under his breath.

“It’s all right,” he says, before the teenager can apologize. “I’m fine, Jeff, thanks.”

He watches Jeff walk away after a nod, cracking a smile for the boy. Once he is out of sight, Jughead’s face falls again and he forces himself to stop his knee from bouncing. That certainly people can’t have heard, but he couldn’t be sure.

Out of all places, he’s made a home in one filled with caffeine and people, two of the things he couldn’t stand when he was younger and can barely do so even now. That being said, _Midge’s_ has the best coffee on the block and, as much as he hates it, he needs coffee. He’s been a regular for almost a year now.

Accidentally, he slurps himself out of his thoughts. The coffee is still hot and he knows the two girls at the booth behind his are laughing at him. He tries to ignore it, for a moment; when he realizes it’s better to be anxious with the situation he’s in now than thinking about what he’s left behind, he doesn’t.

Few minutes later, he’s finished with his coffee and doesn’t feel like asking Jeff for a refill. He tells himself it’s because he really needs to go; he knows it’s because Jeff came and asked if he wanted more and he already said no. In the spirit of that, he tries not to sigh as he picks his things—a notebook that’s a temporary replacement for the broken-down laptop, a pen and his phone—since he knows everybody’s already fed up with his sighs.

On his way out, Jeff’s the only person he nods in goodbye to.

The cold breeze grazes his face as soon as he closes the door behind him. It’s September and he can already feel the whiff of fall coming, bringing along the post-summer weariness lots of people wear on their faces this time of year. He’d say he’s the same, but he wears a different and constant weariness on his face that tends to frighten people away.

Being in New York is good for him. He can pass a thousand people on the street each day and not one of them has ever seen his face on a newspaper, or even knows of the small town by the name of Riverdale.

It’s not like he doesn’t know anyone here. Besides him, at _Midge’s_ there are a few other customers that come in at least once a week and while he doesn’t know their names, they chat from time to time. Then there’s Jeff and his roommate, as well as few kids from his college that he sometimes gets texts from and few of Harvey’s friends. And . . . some other people. He’s not close with any of them.

His thoughts take a sharp turn towards Riverdale again and he forces himself to pay attention to people on the street, instead. A little boy, no older than five, almost runs into him with his mother apologizing; less than a minute later, someone’s dog steps on his foot only this time no one apologizes.

 _Welcome to New York_ , he thinks. _Home of the kindest._

It takes him about forty minutes to get to the _New York Times_ headquarters, then take a turn down the corner and enter the first building on the sight. Give it to the _Pembrooke Independent_ to have a three-story Chinatown-inspired red building that doesn’t the least fit in with the surroundings. When he enters it’s even worse – the owner of the newspaper couldn’t afford to have anything but three wooden chairs and more than twenty people in the waiting room.

Everyone looks at him and he silently curses the bell. The wall is cold against his back and his palms clammy with the notebook in his hands. He thinks he should’ve taken a backpack – thinks just about _anything_ to get the current situation off his mind.

“Nice day, eh?”

He looks to the girl standing next to him. She’s a redhead, early to mid twenties, with bright green eyes and cherry lips. Her coat is burgundy and high boots dark crimson, deviousness in her eyes.

He blinks and her face is kind.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Very nice day.”

He thinks of the wind that ruffled his face, dogs that nearly peed on him and kids who stumbled into him, and he thinks of another girl with red hair, cherry lips and deviousness in her eyes.

None of it is nice.

“So.” The girl smiles at him. “What are you here for?”

“Got business with Toni.”

With a sharp and badly covered inhale, the girl nods and finally looks away. This isn’t the first time he’s seen her around here meaning she knows people don’t go around calling the editor in chief by her first name unless they’re more than occasional writers and photographers.

It’s quiet for the next half hour and people come and go. The redhead stands next to him until one of the chair frees and she’s gone to the office not five minutes later, clutching a set of papers. Most of the people come out looking furious, disappointed or hurt – Toni is known for her ruthlessness.

There are few people left waiting when his turn comes. They’re an odd bunch – an elderly lady with a small dog in her hands; a boy fresh out of high school who keeps throwing fearful glances at the door; a woman in her late thirties with determination on her face that he knows is going to disappear once she meets with the editor; and other people who don’t quite stand out.

For a brief moment, he wonders if he stands out and concludes he must. He walks lazily, dragging one foot after another with his head hung low; the white on his notebook has been through so much it looks almost black now and all corners are twisted, one way or another. There’s to add his hair that hasn’t been combed in – well, he couldn’t recall the last time he did anything except wash it.

He passes the red-haired girl on his way to Toni’s office. She nods at him with a small smile and he thinks how the glint of hopefulness and kindness in her eyes has been replaced with something along the lines of resignation.

Yeah. Toni does that to people.

Because of that, his hand lingers on the handle as he takes in a deep breath, preparing himself for rejection.

Toni’s pink hair is a mess after seven hours of work. She runs a hand through it, only partially aware of his presence; her head is in a bunch of papers and she’s trying to put them in order, but they keep flying out of her hand.

Jughead takes a seat at the chair before him. He thinks he should perhaps help out, then decides he knows better. Toni’s not the one to accept any act of kindness without thinking it’s a conspiracy to get something out of it, even though she was just a few years older than him.

“They all think they’ve got something _special_ ,” Toni sighs. Her fingers are shuffling through the papers, almost as loud as the exasperation in her voice. “They waltz in expecting me to be all awed and astonished then threaten to fall apart when I tell them they’re about as good as the next person.”

He feels she wants him to say something—maybe not actively, but she definitely _does_ —so he tries, “Have you offered to critique it?”

“I have.” She looks up at him through her lashes, followed by her chest rising and falling. “Of course I have. They’re all too embarrassed to agree to it, or intimidated – oh, what do I know! I’m just a thirty year-old woman with pink hair who doesn’t write and scream at those who fool themselves into thinking they can.”

There’s little he can say to that. “I thought you were twenty-nine?”

Toni shrugs, straightening the paper bunch against the table. “One year, give or take, nobody cares.” The papers end up in one of the drawers and she ruffles her hair, finally leaning back in her chair. “The new generation of writers is too fragile. They don’t know how to take a rejection or a critique.”

“Well, you _can_ sometimes be a little over the top when it comes to that, Toni.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I already know I’m a beast, thank you.”

Jughead watches her fiddle with another set of papers. His hands lie on his notebook, fidgeting slightly; September rain is beginning to pour out the window behind the editor’s back and his fingers touch the small umbrella underneath his jacket. As it’s over a fifty-minute walk back to his apartment, he is going to have some fun.

It takes her few more minutes until the desk is clean and she’s ready to take a look at his work. He gives it to her without hesitation and once again thinks of how grateful he is for her.

Back when he came to New York, when he had a little more than a penny to his name, Toni was one of the first editors who sat him down, listened to his reasoning and offered a one-time ticket to the publishing world. His short story ended up in the _Pembrooke Independent_ and he earned enough money to get himself a place to sleep until he came across Harvey. Staying loyal to the newspaper was the least he could do, but New York is full of dreamers and Toni is hell-bent on taking only the best.

More often than not, he doesn’t cut it.

It’s okay, though – it always has been. He realizes that he’s not top-notch and there’s still a lot of improving that needs to be done, but he appreciates every comment Toni gives him. She often tells him he’s one of the rare regular writes who keep coming all the time to get rejected three out of four times.

His thoughts storm off into different directions and he focuses on her. There are crinkles between her dark brows as she reads his work, flipping the pages and mumbling to herself. The red pen she’s using is flying across the paper, much to his dismay yet exactly as expected; Toni is a pro. She doesn’t half-ass things, just like him.

When she throws the notebook on her desk and leans back in her chair, arms crossed on her chest, he knows he’s not being paid.

“This isn’t bad, Jones,” admits Toni. “It’s detailed and emotional and you really made me connect to this Jughead character and his relationship with his father. The problem is, it feels like something’s missing.”

She doesn’t know it’s more than ninety percent true. Good; he didn’t except her to.

Jughead nods. “Something like?”

“Depth.”

The words feel like a punch to his gut. He swallows his reply – nothing he could say would fix the situation whatsoever considering it’s _Toni_ , who isn’t even finished yet.

Her eyes fall upon the notebook again and she takes it, flipping through the pages again. She’s immersed in it, he can tell; there is the lingering ‘but’ before she even says anything else. “It’s one of the best works you’ve submitted—“

“It’s still not enough.” Words escape in a guttural tone, through tense jaw and clenched teeth.  

“ _No_.” The glare she gives him is all he needs to freeze in place. “It’s very well written and you’re one of the best writers we have to pick from. You know that already, Jones. But this,”—she holds up the notebook—“this isn’t enough. A fifteen thousand-word long story is not enough to tell the story you’re trying to tell. It’s enough to only scrape the surface, not more. What you have is material for a _novel_ and trying to cram it into something this short kills it.”

“Okay.”

It’s not okay. He’s shed sweat and blood working on it but he understands where Toni’s coming from and tries to appreciate her honesty. This work isn’t his best and he knew it when he began to write it, but there was a reason and there _still_ is a reason why he handed it in anyway.

Toni merely raises quirks an eyebrow in respose.

To be vulnerable or not to be?

“Okay.” His fingers tap against the desk, legs jittery; it’s not long until he’s digging his nails into the wood and scratching it. He doesn’t look at Toni. “I need the money. It’s—it’s pretty bad again, Toni.”

“How about this? I give you one now and over the next two months, every week you bring in fifteen thousand words by Friday—let’s say, ten pm—I edit it and it’s published in the morning. But I don’t want anything half-assed or novel worthy. I want shit people will read and swallow in one breath, all right? I want the best of F. Jones there is.”

He does the math quickly – if he wrote every week and it was published every week, he’d earn two thousand dollars in two months. This is half the amount, but comes with a guarantee his work will be published.

The next comes the relaxation. His fingers leave the desk alone and he falls back into his seat, meeting his current boss’s gaze. Were he not this tired, perhaps he’d smile. “You’re going to get a better F. Jones than anyone’s ever seen.”

She grants him the infamous Toni Topaz eye roll, combined with leaning even further in the chair. Two seconds later she’s on her feet and disappears through the door leading to her boss’s office. Jughead focuses his attention to the massive rain droplets that he knows he’s going to face on his way home.

It almost goes unnoticed when Toni comes back, but the click of the door falling into place snaps him out of it. Right on time to notice the concern on her face—albeit hidden poorly behind a smirk—and catch an object flying towards him.

Cash.

“I don’t need a better F. Jones than anyone’s seen, kid,” Toni tells him with a smile. “I just need something I can publish.”

Jughead nods. “Thanks, Toni.” If his voice doesn’t grasp the gratitude he feels, his eyes do.

Even his fingers stopped fidgeting at some point and his legs calmed down; he doesn’t feel so calm anymore and there’s a sudden sound missing in his chest as his heart doesn’t beat crazy anymore. Rain’s still pouring.

Toni walks to the cabinet with glasses and hard liquor—it was a necessity when one works this job—and Jughead stands up. He reaches for his notebook, but his eyes latch onto a single stack of papers still sitting on the desk. “What’s this?”

Already pouring herself a glass of whiskey, Toni turns around with furrowed brows. “It’s that redhead’s. She didn’t take another rejection very well.”

“Another?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding unusually sincere for the unpleasantries of a situation she is a witness to several times a day. Toni chugs down the glass and shudders a little. “She’s been coming in at least once every two weeks for about a year now, and had only two works published.”

“Shit, that sucks.” Jughead takes the manuscript in his hands; _Little Teller_ , by Nancy Harper. His eyes skim over the first few paragraphs and he finds himself liking it a bit more than he expected. “It’s not that bad.”

“Of course it isn’t; Nancy’s good,” Toni comments. “She’s too reckless. Doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t try hard, really. I don’t like people like her.”

“Of course you don’t. She’s a dreamer, isn’t she?”

Toni nods. Her glance at the manuscript is brief but he spots the disappointment in her eyes. By the time she’s offered him a glass of whiskey, he’s figured something’s up. “She has a great way of imagining a story, bringing it to life, but that’s where it stops. She doesn’t have any writing expertise – she expects that just because she’s good at thinking it up, she has it all.”

“Ah. Aren’t we all.”

“No.” Toni looks at him in surprise, taken aback by his tone. “Of course not, Jones. You’re talented in every area, but you’re too ambitious for a newspaper like _Pembrooke_. _That_ is your problem.”

“Yeah, well,” Jughead mutters, “not everyone thinks the same. Can I take this?”

“Sure. Don’t have much to with it, anyway.” She places the glass on the table, with some whiskey still remaining. When she sits back in her chair and leans against the backrest with a heavy sigh, Jughead thinks she looks like she has every thread of her life in her own hands.

 _She does_ , he concludes. _If anyone does, it’s her._

“Thanks.”

Toni allows a smile reach her eyes and looks like the Toni he’s used to. “Now get the hell out of my office, Jones. I got fifteen people whose dreams need to be crushed and I only have one hour.”

Jughead gives her a solemn nod, tapping at the desk, three times. Her eyes meet his and he can already begin to see glassiness in them – Toni was never prone to hard liquor. “Seriously,” he tells her quietly, “thank you.”

Toni nods, already occupied with something else. Making sure he has everything and throwing one last glance to the window to check if the damn rain is still falling—one can never stop hoping—Jughead’s done here.

She’s not looking at him, but her shoulders are tense and it doesn’t seem she’s all that focused on the papers in front of her. His hand lingers on the handle for just a moment.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

All he can do is nod, and that’s when he finally leaves.

Stupid is what he’d do if she didn’t give him the money. Stupid is bruises and bleeding noses that don’t heal properly; stupid is sleepless nights and broken ribs that he knows isn’t good for him, let alone healthy.

Tonight, there’s no stupid – there’s just a thousand dollars in the front pocket of his jeans.

He passes few people on his way out, nodding at the woman with straight posture who immediately takes off to the office. It’s quiet, now, and they’re still staring but it doesn’t matter as much anymore. His fingers are warm and his neck doesn’t feel so exposed, and he doesn’t think he stands out so much.

Harvey’s the first and only person he texts and they agree to celebrate. He’s already on his way to _Midge’s_ to grab something for his roommate and him when he sees a high ponytail washed in gold and stops in his tracks.

Her name passes his lips like a prayer.

“Betty.”

His feet are glued to the asphalt; someone pushes him out of their way and he almost gets run over by a cab, but he can hardly even _feel_ anything. All he sees is the gold and the black jacket— _Is that_ leather _?—_ and he knows it’s not her.

He takes a deep breath. It’s not her. It’s not her now and hasn’t been the previous seventy two times.

The rest of the walk home he is joined by the ghosts of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this and if you did, please leave some feedback - these help me improve as a writer and I'd really appreciate it. Or, if not, you can just leave your thoughts.  
> Toni Topaz is a character from the comics, but she's not going to be the same. Harvey and Nancy are original characters and few others will appear, as this isn't AU and I can't use characters shown on the show. And, sorry for the lack of Betty - she comes in the next chapter.


	2. ii. your sacred stars won't be guiding you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are several reasons why I turned my back to everything I’ve ever known, Harvey.” He takes a long look at his friend, for the first time since arriving. “She’s almost all of them.”

A DOG GROWLS when Toni breaks the news to him. It’s raining outside, just like it has been for the past few days, and he feels like he’s repeating September all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him for the umpteenth time and he _knows_ she is, but all he can do is stare out the window and think how the buildings looked so much browner on the movies and how rain doesn’t make anything better, after all.

He also knows he should say it’s all right, but he doesn’t feel like lying. He sees it in her eyes – she wants him to understand it was a decision she needed to make as an editor in chief, and not a friend.

“I think I’m going to leave now.” He tries not to let his voice falter, but he’s bad at it.

“Jones—“

“No, Toni,” he quietly interrupts. “Right now, I’ve got better places to be.”

She nods and he feels guilty, for just a moment. It doesn’t linger because he can’t push out of his mind the fact that it _was_ her decision, friends or not. And it’s selfish, because she’s given him more than anyone else has in this godforsaken city.

Jughead takes the manuscript with a shaky breath and hopes Toni can’t see his fingers trembling as he does. His posture is straight and hair damping from the rain, but he maintains the pride he holds himself with; doesn’t let her see how important this is to him.

It doesn’t slip his notice when she nods to herself. She flops into the chair looking as tired as he feels – eyes fixed on the window and hands on the table, he feels like she knows exactly what’s going through his mind.

Even though he said he was going to leave, they stare through the window together. Certainly there are different things on each of their minds, but he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

Toni’s voice is quiet and she doesn’t avert her eyes. “I see you’re still here.”

“Going,” Jughead replies.

Yet he still stands there, fingers thumping against the paper he knows he shouldn’t have used. But there’s so many things he shouldn’t have done he can no longer keep the count of – instead he stands in the office of the _Pembrooke Independent_ ’s editor in chief, delaying the inevitable that waits for him outside it.

He’s thinking too much. Again.

With his hand lingering on the doorknob, he really is ready to go. Except Toni turns in her chair to face him, and he notices she’s dyed her hair a lighter shade of pink. He looks away.

“I gave you two months’ worth of published stories and you didn’t deliver enough,” she tells him, voice hoarse. “What you brought me will make people think it a _Fight Club_ ripoff if I publish it, even with the missing sister element.”

Jughead swallows. The hand on the doorknob is clammy. “And what do _you_ think?”

“That you can do better.”

He thinks he should look at her, but doesn’t. He doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves through the door—all he offers is a small nod to no one in particular—and his chest feels heavy at the thought of what’s happening.

There’s no one in the waiting room. Working hours have passed and the only reason why he knew he could come in at this time is because Toni is a workaholic and _Pembrooke_ is most of her life and she understands his need to take things the traditional way – or so she thinks.

Jughead sighs at the door; rain is heavy and so is the wind, and his poor cheap umbrella couldn’t save him from _that_ – not for five minutes and especially not for an hour.

Toni wouldn’t mind him staying for a while, he concludes. He can’t go home when the weather’s like this and paying for a cab is . . . well, out of question.

He takes out his cell and stares it for some time, wondering what he’s going to say. His finger hovers over the contact and he knows he has to do it sometime and delaying only increases his anxiety, but he still waits.

His jaw clenches in the exact moment his finger presses the contact button.

_“Hey, Jones, what’s up?”_

Jughead closes his eyes, perfectly aware of his fingers playing with the hem of his shirt; trembling. Harvey sounds happy to receive a call from a boy who never calls, only texts – and he feels guilty because of the circumstances.

He prepares for the worst. He’s not going to get the worst from Harvey, the kindest boy he’s ever met.

He prepares for it, anyway.

“Hey, Harvey,” he says. “I just got out of Toni’s—“

_“Ah. It’s okay. You’ll pay me later.”_

Jughead’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other line, warm and light. It makes him scrunch his eyebrows in utter confusion. When Harvey finally speaks, his voice is just like the chuckle and he can tell he’s smiling—the good kind of smiles only he gives.

 _“I can tell it didn’t go well, Jones,”_ Harvey says. _“Don’t worry about it. I can pay your rent for this month and you’ll give it back to me somehow. You’ll clean every Saturday instead of me, or something.”_

“Har—“

 _“Jones._ Don’t _fucking worry about it.”_

When he opens his eyes, the world feels brighter. Even the corners of his lips are threatening to turn upwards; he doesn’t deserve a friend like Harvey. He doesn’t deserve a friend like Toni, either – he doesn’t deserve _any_ of it.

“Thanks, Harvey,” he says into the cell with a shaky voice. “Thank you.”

 _“Shut up and grab me fries and a chicken burger at_ Midge’s _,”_ Harvey laughs; Jughead appreciates it now more than ever. _“You need a ride?”_

He glances at the glass door, taking in the sight with a quiet sigh. The rain’s still falling, heavily, but it’s calmed down a little and it isn’t pouring anymore. If he waits here just a little longer, it’ll either stop falling completely or be bearable for his umbrella.

“No,” he tells his roommate, “I’ll manage.”

_“Okay. I’ll give you the money for burgers when you get home.”_

“I’ve got enough for two burgers, Harv.”

_“No. It’s on me. Don’t try to fight me.”_

Jughead sighs, _again_. “See ya.”

_“Don’t get lost.”_

Don’t be fooled – he despises being dependent on his friends’ favours to keep him alive. It’s not the first time he has to do something else instead of paying rent, or eating on Harvey’s tab and the way it looks, it’s not going to be the last time, either.

Back of the chair is cold when he leans against it, much like the wall he rests his head against. With closed eyes, all he can feel is the December cold and the washed away scent of a city; it feels like cement and sorrow, at the moment. The drizzling rain becomes the white noise in his head and he’s drifting off to a someplace calmer; someplace far, far _away . . ._

“ _Jones_ , what the _fuck_ are you still doing here?”

He flinches and nearly falls off the chair; everything’s too bright and his vision is blurry, but he makes out a silhouette in purple.

“I—Shit, Toni. What time is it?”

She stands with hands on her hips, looking tall and angry and much like a dark-skinned and pink-haired fury. Maybe his next story should be about that, and she’d think it ambitionless enough to publish.

He props himself on the chair, thinking he must’ve drifted off at some point. Toni says nothing as she watches him with scorn in her eyes, ready to scold him for a wide variety of reasons. His only hope is that he looks desperate and pathetic enough she thinks it _is_ enough.

“Six,” she tells him. “You were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago, but I’m glad you didn’t. I got an offer for you, kid.”

It leaves Toni’s mouth quickly—too quickly for him to catch at once—or his mind still hasn’t awoken completely. Once he processes her words, he’s wide awake and staring with expectancy in his eyes.

“I’m listening.”

“I need a columnist. It’s not what you’d bargain for, but it reviews movies and books and anything you’d want to. One a week, you’re a regular,” she says. It sounds heavy, he thinks.

Perhaps it’s because she already knows his answer.

“I’m a writer, not a journalist.” His thoughts flash to one point in his life where he thought he could be one – he blocks the road before he delves in too deep. “I’m sorry.”

Toni sighs; she knew the answer. “It’s all right. I’ll be going now, so you’ll need to leave. Do you need a ride?”

He glances out the glass door and notices the rain’s stopped falling, but it’s still going to be cold outside. “No.”

“Sure, kid.” They leave the building together and she locks the door, eyes still on him. “You sure you don’t want the position? If you need the money, then—“

“No,” he cuts her off. His voice is sharp and the glare he grants her is more than she deserves. “I’m not a sell-out, Toni. You of all people should know that.”

When he turns her back to her, he feels her gaze burning into him. His jaw is clenched and manuscript carelessly tucked underneath his armpit, and he feels something boiling inside him.

Does he feel bad for storming out like this? No – and he should. Toni offered him a way out and his pride ate it away, like it did with anything he’s offered. But it’s a part of him he cannot say no to, not now and not ever and it has always been this way. Even when before, in Riverdale—

The entirety of his body shakes. His shoulders are higher than usual and he’s walking fast and steady, eyes on the pavement. The sound his boots make when he takes a step irks him to the point he wants to tear them apart and they squeak _every single time_. His hands are resting in the pockets of his jacket, manuscript tucked under his sleeve and he doesn’t even care the few droplets falling from the shops and rooftops are going to leave marks on his already-smudged handwriting.

It’s about when he passes down the street that he sees another blonde ponytail, just like she used to wear. The girl’s back are facing him and she’s wearing a peach coat, standing out in the sea of dark colours. She’s talking to someone, all the way on the other side of the street and cars are blocking his view of her as he walks; he feels like he’s heard a melody so familiar to him, yet so distant he can’t reach it anymore.

In the span of a moment, he wonders of an entire future if the girl turned around and it was _her_.

Another car comes and stops right in front of her, and he looks away for good this time. It does not do to dwell on the dreams and forget to live, as Dumbledore once said. He himself lives too much in the past despite his wishes, and not enough in future – except in rare moments like this, when past and future blend into once and his grip onto present loosens.

He shakes his head. There’s a lot that needs to be done, and thinking of her is never one of the things.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet when he enters _Midge’s_. Most booths are empty and the few people he sees are either regulars, or young couples that likely have no better ways to spend this night. He doesn’t envy them—not now or ever—but his heart does skip a beat when he thinks of evenings like these he used to spend with a group of people in a similar place.

He turns to Midge before his thoughts proceed any further.

“One double cheese burger and one chicken burger, to go, please,” he says. His eyes then fall upon the milkshake tub, and feels a memory taking shape somewhere deep in the back of his mind. “And two vanilla shakes.”

Midge—a dark haired girl in her early twenties—smiles at him with a nod. “Straying away from the usual?”

“No, Harvey wants his beloved chicken burger,” he says with a small smile.

Midge laughs, shaking her head. “I meant the milkshakes.”

“Oh. That.”

Before he gets to answer, she leaves to make the shakes while they wait for the burgers to be done. The diner looks quite melancholic without the usual people in it, and it’s just started snowing and people are running around with boxes underneath their hands.

The entire city is in a rush, except in this little corner of universe. _Midge’s_ is, and always has been, calm.

“What’s up, dreamer?” he hears Midge’s cheerful voice. “Thinkin’ of someone?”

He turns on the seat, facing her with elbows on the bar. She’s pretty, he thinks, and nice. “Absolutely.”

“Oh? Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Victoria,” he says, taking the bags filled with food. There’s almost a smirk on his face – he’s sure he would’ve smile, were he not exhausted by what the day has prepared for him. “I’m fairly certain she’s going to flip when I introduce her boyfriend to vanilla milkshakes.”

Midge laughs and gives him the tab. His hand sticks into his back pocket and panic washes over him; _he’s fucking broke_.

“Is everything okay with you?” Midge sounds faraway and distant. “Jones, the money’s already on the bar.”

His gaze drops to the bar and he sees a twenty dollar bill right there. He doesn’t recall taking the money out, or even _having_ a twenty – but it’s his, it must be.

“Yeah,” murmurs Jughead, “just having a bit of a rough day, that’s all.”

The bag settles knowingly in his fingers, already engraving itself into them. He runs a hand through his hair, subconsciously noting he needs to cut it, and takes the change Midge gives him. The coins clatter in his pocket, unnaturally, and he tries to ignore the concerned look the owner of the diner gives him when he says his goodbyes.

When he came to New York, Midge was one of the first people he met. She had just opened a diner in Washington Heights at barely nineteen, after having lived in Harlem all her life. He just so happened to be in search of a job and a place to stay, and she was looking for a roommate and someone to help out around the diner – he slept at her place and worked instead of paying the rent.

Being eighteen and having three months to spare until university, it was all he needed. Perhaps they even became friends at some point, but it never became anything more than that. When he left for the NYU campus, they shortly fell out of contact yet once he came back to the neighbourhood, he kept coming into the diner he once helped build.

 _Midge’s_ was the first home he made in the city. It was rusty and old—Midge bought it from an old couple—but the girl breathed life into it shortly after. Even more so, when he found himself in the need of something more temporary than what he had, she was the middle-woman between him and his roommate-to-be, having grown up with his girlfriend.

He owes her a lot – much more than she knows, let alone gives herself credit for.

He leaves the diner lost in memories of his early days in the city—those he cherishes—and fails to notice someone is planning on entering it upon slamming the door on them. Otherwise he wouldn’t apologize, but this time it was so blatantly his fault he couldn’t ignore it, despite his best will.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles; getting back from dazing memories to cold reality has never been an easy—or quick—process for him. “Didn’t see you.”

Does he plan on looking at the person? No, he plans on minding his own business and that is getting home as soon as possible as Harvey’s been expecting him for a while now.

But he looks at them. Nonchalantly; accidentally, at first.

He does a second take when his fingers relent and the bag crashes on the pavement, unnoticed by any part of his being.

_Betty._

Jughead blinks, staring at the girl in front of him. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail and it’s still the colour of gold washed by the sun; her lips, full and soft and laced with soft lip gloss— _he feels them; smooth and soft and leaving taste of honey on his own—_ and doe blue eyes now framed with light red eye shadow— _they’re taking in the sight of him when they kiss after a fight, losing himself in the eyes he’s made a home in—_ and it’s all so familiar he feels like he’s gotten a football into his stomach.

Except she’s older now, and that’s where the similarities stop. He face is longer and bones more intricately shaped, eyes that no longer posses the innocence he’s once fallen in love with and there is something in the way she stands that makes her seem more mature – and he feels it. Even the coat of the colour of peach doesn’t scream _Cooper!_ anymore.

He takes in the sight of her and forgets to breathe.

“Jughead?”

In a reply, he swallows—throat dry—and nods, weakly. Her voice is high pitched and she’s staring at him wide eyed, and all the years they’ve spent apart seem erased from his memory. It’s the night before graduation again and he’s staring at her, taking in her loveliness—

“You lost the hat,” she states. She sounds unsure; is it a question?

“You lost the Cooper-ness,” he replies.

She laughs at that, looking at her outfit. “Yeah. Been about time, hasn’t it?”

Jughead smiles; there’s so much he wants to say and so much more he knows he _shouldn’t_ say that in the end, he opts for nothing.

“So.” Betty’s looking at him and her voice is deeper, he notices. There’s a certain sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there last time he saw her. “I’m going to get something. Feel like coming along, for old times’ sake and all that?”

 _All that—_ he thinks— _yeah, all that when I left without a call. All that, when we never broke up. All that, all that – there’s so much of it._

And none he feels like sharing.

At that, he realizes his bag is still on the ground – both of them must’ve forgotten it slipped his grasp, or perhaps neither has noticed. He lifts it with what he deems a ‘sorry’ grin. “Maybe some other time.”

“Oh,” she says and he hears genuine disappointment in her voice. “Absolutely.”

There is silence that isn’t one—people are moving around them, chatting; drivers are honking the horns and there’s sounds everywhere—but they’re not saying a word and it feels heavy, troubling. Jughead tells himself it’s for the best.

He sighs; quietly, again. “I should get going. My roommate’s waiting.”

Betty nods and his eyes are transfixed by the way her ponytail bounces, just like it always has. “Yeah. Me too.”

The moment their eyes meet, he’s eighteen all over again and looking at Riverdale for the last time. When she averts her eyes the memory is gone and he feels like holding onto thin air; she’s here and it’s almost as if no time even passed, yet in the same moment it feels like she’s in a whole other universe and he can’t reach her and—

He should go, he knows. He does. Yet they exchange numbers—it feels strange having her in his limited contact list again—and he recommends her what to get at _Midge’s_. Both of them are older now but there are so many things that need to be talked about and even more questions he raised last time they saw each other and the only thing between them is tension. It doesn’t matter how hard they try to ignore it – it’s there, more palpable than ever, and it hardly feels it has ever been something else.

Jughead’s the first to leave. He waves in goodbye, not quite managing to find the right words to say, and she smiles in return. Five years ago, that smile would melt him – now it just evokes more bad than good and things that should’ve remained buried. Instead, they agree to catch up over a coffee—because milkshakes would hurt all too close to home and neither are ready for that—even though he has his doubts, already.

The twenty-minute walk to his place is clouded by memories he tries to fight. He thinks of Archie and Veronica and all the people he left behind; there’s ache in his chest he hasn’t felt in years, almost, because he never allows himself to.

He almost misses Victoria on his way into the complex. She greets him cheerfully, black locks swinging as she animatedly tells him about the movie she’s just seen with her boyfriend. He talks to her, forgetting what she says almost instantly, and breathes of relief when she finally leaves.

Any other time he’d feel bad for being like this—he genuinely likes Victoria, despite her a little assertive and loud behaviour—but his mind is too preoccupied with other things to deal with it now. Even when he finally enters the apartment, he hardly registers his roommate greeting him as he sets the bag on the table and closes himself in his room.

First thing he does is open all windows. There’s three of them, seeing as his room is on the corner of the building. He lets the air flow and sits on the windowsill with one leg hanging out and a lit cigarette between his lips, the last he could afford.

Jughead never smokes. He stopped with it when things got really bad for the second time, and now only has a pack ready for situations where he needs to calm his nerves and smokes once cigarette every few weeks, or months, sometimes.

Harvey enters with a knock. He says nothing when he takes a seat next to him, back turned to the outside world.

Even subconsciously, Jughead watches his closest friend with a grateful eye. Harvey’s three years older than him and in every way what before Jughead would refer to as ‘self-entitled spoiled brat’. He has money and is good at what he does – that solely would once be enough for him to never speak to someone again.

During the last three years, he’s gotten to know him better. The tousled brown hair means he’s been painting again, and there’s a glint in his eyes that makes him see the world in a different way – through a lense of kindness Jughead could never find in himself. He’s an artist and brilliant at it, supporting himself with the little he earns and what his parents gave him in his enormous trust fund, asking Jughead for fifteen percent of the massive rent – something he found out a year into their living together.

Harvey knows what to do. He’s quiet when Jughead needs him to and respects his wishes not to speak of certain things. Never being one for books, he still helps him out whenever Jughead asks and wants to be included in as much of Jughead’s life as he allows him to.

He doesn’t deserve Harvey Levario.

“I had an encounter with someone I used to know.” Jughead flicks the butt of the cigarette on the windowsill; ash falls and his eyes follow it. “Someone I tried to forget about.”

Next comes a long drag; smoke fills his lungs like poison, and he enjoys every moment of it. When he exhales the smoke leaves a familiar taste on his tongue – something he shouldn’t enjoy.

It begins to darken and it’s well below the freezing point. Neither of them has moved or said anything in a long time.

Moments like these are when he wishes he could tell Harvey everything. He knows more than anyone else in his life, the rich East Harlem-born kid would understand in ways that others wouldn’t. He’d say something genuine that would make him feel better and perhaps things wouldn’t seem so hopeless and times so desperate.

Except, involving him in it would be the worst kind of selfish Jughead can imagine.

“When I left home, I left everything behind.” He picks his words carefully, once the butt of cigarette, too, is flicked down the road. His eyes are glued to the moving cars and passing people and he envies their unawareness. “I did it for a specific reason and it’s the one right thing I’ve done in my life.”

He’s quiet before he continues, and so is Harvey. It means more to him than words ever could.

“She’s the best thing I left behind and I don’t regret cutting it off. Seeing her today, though . . . It made me regret it.”

Harvey’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “Do you miss her?”

“No,” comes the automatic response. It burns his tongue and stabs his throat; he closes his eyes and they flutter, before he opens them again. “I always have. That doesn’t mean being in contact with her is a good idea.”

The lights are lit and the street becomes alive, illuminated by the kind of freshness only New York possesses – nothing ever feels truly _over_ here.

Beside him, Harvey shudders. Jughead decides it’s time to stop with the charade, but not before he says: “There are several reasons why I turned my back to everything I’ve ever known, Harvey.” He takes a long look at his friend, for the first time since arriving. “She’s almost all of them.”

The window then closes and so does Jughead’s will to speak of Betty. Harvey accepts it without a word, indulging him in a conversation about Toni and lets him vent until there’s nothing left to say. It’s late when he finally eats the burger Harvey gives him, and he tells him about his day at the gallery. Jughead tells him he’s going to have the money for rent in two weeks’ time, but Harvey doesn’t want to hear of it.

It’s even later when Jughead finally lies in bed, nearly morning. Sounds of the city awakening keep him awake, too, and he wonders for a moment of all the things that have taken place in order for him to end up right here, right in that moment.

He gets her text at five in the morning, on a Friday. His eyes skim over it and he pays no mind to it as he turns off the cell phone, placing it on the other side of the bed.

He doesn’t need her reminder it’s another Christmas he spends alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment - those mean a lot to me.
> 
> Harvey I picture as Brandon Larracuente (Jeff in 13 Reasons Why), Midge as Alisha Boe (Jessica Davis in 13RW), and Toni as no one at the moment, and Victoria as Aja Naomi King (Michaela Pratt in HTGAWM), just for the record.
> 
> The more I plan this, the darker this gets. There are hints scattered throughout the first two chapters, but there might be more as the story progresses.


	3. iii. made a dead man's money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My life doesn’t have a place for her,” he says quietly.

IN EVERY SITUATION, there’s two types of people – those who do and those who don’t. For the entirety of his life, he’s considered himself to be the former, fighting for what he believes in and coordinating his actions according to it.

Given that he’s currently at Midge’s writing a column about the latest blockbuster, it’s not difficult to say he was wrong.

It was Harvey’s advice, he thinks as he sips his coffee. It was good advice, despite the fact it pained his pride to accept Toni’s offer and—in his own words—sell out. But when everything’s taken into account, Jughead needs to admit that it was the best decision he could make.

“You doing all right there, mate?” asks Jeff, grinning at him from the counter.

Jughead rolls his eyes. “You’re not getting that tip, mate.”

“Ah, bummer,” Jeff says. “It’s the only thing keeping me alive, you know.”

Although he says nothing and tries very hard not to smile, working on the column is easier for him from that point. Suffice to say, he’s taken a liking to the kid – he’s clever, the way he thinks he used to be, and has the street smarts of a boy much older than his age. Though, put that aside and you get a seventeen year-old who doesn’t do well at school, has a mother who’s working two shifts all the time and a never-present father.

It was a joke – Jughead’s tips aren’t the only thing keeping him alive. But somehow, if it means anything to the kid, makes his life at least a little bit easier—even if that’s just knowing someone’s going to tip him a little more than they should every time they come—then it’s worth it.

This is about the point when three things happen.

Thing one: he decides he’s done with the column for the day. It shouldn’t be long, anyway, but he’s never been the one to half-ass things so he’s going to make it the best he can. But for the day, he’s done with it.

Thing two: he decides his next story should be about Jeff. The boy’s a great study of character; someone coming from a not-so-good neighbourhood (Midge pulled his family to Washington Heights once Midge’s became profitable) with a bright outlook on their future. Jughead was definitely a fan and, if he manages to put it on the paper the right way, others will be, too.

Thing three: Betty Cooper enters the diner.

Her hair isn’t pulled into a ponytail – it’s styled in a long, careless-looking braid that reaches her mid back. The coat she’s wearing reaches her knees and it’s a faded blue, a colour he once told her looks amazing on her. And it does, even now – it brings out the red in her cheeks and the plumpness of her lips, contrasting the light in her eyes and making her hair look a soft gold.

His eyes fall back onto the paper and he scribbles something on it, painfully aware of her eyes on him. It’s not long until she slides into the booth across from him.

He doesn’t look up.

“Hi.”

“I’m busy,” he says.

When she doesn’t move, he knows she hasn’t changed. There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach, blubbering, and he can’t figure out whether it’s pride for her remaining as persistent as he was used to, or annoyance because she wouldn’t leave.

It’s his decision it’s the latter.

With his pen clicking a little louder than it should’ve, he raises his eyes to meet hers. “What brings the infamous Betty Cooper to the farthest booth in a small New York diner?”

“Well,” she says, voice quiet, “the milkshakes.” She says it with a smile, a sheepish one that could once upon a time cut through any guard he’d build up for himself; this time, his walls are too thick for even a gaze like hers to protrude them.

“The milkshakes.”

The smile grows. “Yes.”

He grumbles something he forgets immediately, likely about refusing the offer between the lines – he is not going to be bought by a milkshake, no matter how good. It’s Betty’s way of trying to get to him, to pretend everything’s normal.

They chat for some time, small talk at most. He doesn’t need to—want to—turn on his brain for this. Instead, his thoughts compare the similarities between now and then.

Against his better judgement, he allows himself to find enough solace in her blue eyes to steady the pace of his thoughts.

He’s at Pop’s again; they’re sixteen. Betty is sitting next to him and sipping a milkshake, her hand cold in his. It’s February, his birthday, but it doesn’t feel like it.

“What now?” he remembers asking.

His beanie lies forgotten on the table, all he can think about is Betty. She feels small in his arms, cradled against his chest with nose nuzzled into the collar of his jacket. Her palms are open and he can’t tear his eyes off them, fingers trailing the faint crescent shapes on them.

He remembers Betty has closed her eyes some time ago. Her breathing is even and calm, and maybe for the first time since they came from the movies, he feels like things aren’t that bad. Next thing he does is kiss her forehead with closed eyes. It’s the feeling he never wants to let go of, the warmth of Betty Cooper over his body.

He remembers her smiling a little when she looks up. Her eyes are a little red and he smiles at her, running a hand through her hair.

“Now,” he remembers her soft voice telling him, “we go home.”

He is already home.

Thinking of Betty is weird, Jughead concludes as he watches her tell him about her job at New York Times. He’s been putting it off for nearly five years and when he finally does succumb, it comes naturally as ever.

Fuck, Jughead thinks and his heart plummets into his stomach. I miss her.

He sighs, but she doesn’t notice. She’s talking to him and she sounds excited, and he wonders if he’s doing the right thing. He left Riverdale for a reason, much like he told Harvey, and he never thought he’d face any of it ever again. But Jughead is Jughead and, even though he goes by Jones know, things he runs away from always catch up to him.

“Hey, Betty?”

She was saying something—and he interrupted—but now she’s staring at him, doe eyes filled with confusion and expectancy. “Yes?”

He swallows. Doesn’t dwell on it. “How about we finish this conversation in my flat?”

It’s then that her smile becomes genuine—and he realizes he hasn’t noticed it wasn’t—and her eyes light up in a way he’s so used to it makes him smile against his better judgement. She’s the first to leave and wait outside, as he leaves the money on the table and ten dollars more than he should.

Jeff doesn’t notice it but it doesn’t matter to Jughead. The kid smiles at him and he waves back, feeling good. He’s done some good today and he’s going to fix the mistakes he’s made, before turning his back to them when the night falls.

On their way to his apartment, they talk about things he knows don’t matter to either of them. It’s about the weather and what awful storms are coming up; about her flat and how she got it, about her friends here and other things he can’t bother remembering. It doesn’t slip his notice she not once mentions Riverdale or past.

They’re stuck in the present and as long as their history is locked behind them, he doesn’t run.

“I’ve been staying with Harvey for three years now,” he explains carefully. “On Fridays, he and Victoria, his girlfriend, go to the movies and then to the first restaurant they come across when opening the phone book. It’s been that way for all seven years they’ve been dating, so I’m sure you don’t need to worry about accidentally bumping into him.”

“I’m not—“

“Betty,” he says. “It’s all right.”

Her face falls but there’s a glimmer in her eyes; he notices her hand twitching ever so slightly towards his, eyes following it. He tucks them into the pockets of his jacket using the cold as an excuse.

He knows she’s anxious about this. He knows until he told her they aren’t going to be jumped by his roommate that she was freaking out about it on the inside. He still remembers a lot of things about her.

For the briefest of moments—and stupidest, of course—he thinks whether he should tell her that his hand is reaching for hers, too.

Before he does something he’s going to regret, he stops in front of a tall brown building. “We’re here.”

Betty looks up, eyes the building – he can see the wheels turning, but he’s not answering the questions she’s not asking. The whole point of this little trip to his place is to soothe her curiosity, show her there’s nothing left for her in his life and hope their paths cross never again.

“It looks lovely,” Betty comments as they make their way into the building.

“Harvey’s choice,” Jughead explains. “He’s got a knack for things like this.”

“Fanciness?”

“You could say that.” His word of choice would be luxury – and he has a feeling it’s hers, too, except she’s still polite enough to not be so blunt.

It was a bad decision, he concludes when she enters the apartment. The awe on her face is visible, barely shielding confusion she’s fallen into. He locks the door and watches her look around, making comments about the size of it and the paintings—Harvey’s—and asking whether she could buy one.

Jughead replies to all questions as polite as he can. He’s reserved and she notices, especially when they’re sitting on the sofa that’s bigger than his bed back at home.

When it nears six o’clock, Jughead gets up to make dinner. He doesn’t want to admit it, but sitting next to her was like smoking the last cigarette in the pack – something that’s good, but something that kills you and you know it shouldn’t happened, though it happened so many times before.

To him, Betty Cooper is an addiction that comes with more flaws than perks.

“You’re always been so against cooking,” she comments. She makes her way to the bar and sits on the stool, hands on the flat surface. “I never figured one day you’d be offering to make me dinner.”

Jughead gives her a long look, preparing eggs. “I can heat you some pizza.”

“No.” Betty smiles at him. “If I die, I’d rather it be of your cooking than supermarket food.”

He crouches and takes in a deep breath, where she can’t see, and doesn’t say anything when he comes back with a frying pan. She tells him about her roommate—whose name Jughead keeps missing—and how they’re living in a pretty small flat, as she’s financing herself off her own earnings and none of her family’s money.

Jughead doesn’t know whether that’s a passive attack at him for living in a massive apartment. His skin crawls, and he decides it’s easier to go on with his life pretending it is.

“So,” Betty says and Jughead’s more than relieved than she can’t see the change in his face in response to the change in her tone. “How’s it been?”

“Delightful,” he replies. He stuffs the eggs onto the pan then relaxes his shoulders, slowly, thinking of breathing. When the omelette is done, he places one on her plate and one on his, sitting opposite of Betty. “It’s not poison.”

“Of course it isn’t poison.” She takes a bite and gives out a surprised gasp. “This is amazing, Juggie!”

Flinch and shudder. Don’t think about it. “Harvey should be back soon.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Jughead.”

“Didn’t I?” He gives her another long look, wrapping it with steel. “I said things have been delightful.”

Betty says nothing to this, but her lower lip is trembling and her knuckles are white, fingers somewhere on her palm.

Jughead sighs. It’s no longer your concern. If she’s hurting yourself, it’s none of your business. He leaves the room and checks up on Harvey—he’s going to be here in ten minutes—before stopping on his way back.

“Damn you, Betty.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He hurt her once and he’s going to hurt her again because she’s nosy and he doesn’t need that right now.

Instead of the kitchen in the living room, he goes into the bathroom. The boy staring at him in the mirror is no longer that – the sleepless nights had taken a toll a long time ago, and his black hair is now cut short to only few inches. He runs a hand through it, recalling how it felt back in Riverdale, when it was much longer. He’s lost some weight in the past few months, too – his cheekbones are more defined and jaw stronger. Jughead’s no longer a boy, much like Betty’s no longer a girl.

They’re a man and a woman now, and two people who should mean nothing to one another.

He washes his face, splashing water all around. A pair of fingerless gloves that are always waiting for him end up on his hands, and he feels ready to face Betty.

When he comes back, she hasn’t touched her omelette.

“Hey. Aren’t you going to eat that?”

Betty smiles at him; Jughead balls his hands into fists behind his back. “I was waiting for you.”

He doesn’t smile back and they eat in silence.

Not even a minute later—Jughead curses silently that it couldn’t last long enough—Betty breaks it, poking her omelette with a fork. “I thought we could . . . go out sometime. Have a real talk.”

“We can talk now.”

“We can’t,” Betty says, and he hears exasperation in her voice. “We can’t because you’ve been avoiding any serious topic this entire time!”

He looks at her, then shrugs. “Or I guess we can’t talk now.”

“Jughead – I just want to know what happened.”

If he were to start – no, he’s not going to. There’s no point in even trying to make the events a coherent story because there would be so much needed to be left out for her and by taking it all out, less than a skeleton would remain and he’s already got one too many in his closet.

Jughead puts away their plates and sits back on his chair, not looking at her. His fingers are fidgeting with the gloves and he’s constantly making sure she can’t see his knuckles.

In the moment he makes a decision, his heart falters a little.

“What happened is none of your business, Betty,” Jughead tells her; slowly, clearly, sharply. “Not anymore.”

That is about the point when three things happen.

First, Betty parts her lips to protest. It’s just like he remembers – stern eyes and tense shoulders, body leaning over the counter just a little. Except her eyes are now harsher and older, and he knows the words that are about to leave her mouth more evocate and to-the-point than before, and they’re more swords than swift daggers.

Second, Jughead decides he’s had enough. It’s somewhere he needs to draw a line and this is just the right time to do it. He’s not going to argue with her. He’s not going to even think about what she might have to say, because it really is none of her business what he’s doing with his life. And Jughead decides to forget about her.

Third, Harvey Levario comes home.

“Hola, mi amigo!” echoes in the vast living room, laughter scattered through the words.

Jughead doesn’t greet him and neither does Betty, so when Harvey enters the living room and sees them, the silence that ensues is one of the tensest Jughead’s ever experienced. He takes his eyes off Betty and takes a long look at his roommate, because words that are forming in his head are all but appropriate.

He stands up. “Harvey, this is Elizabeth Cooper. Elizabeth, this is Harvey Levario, my roommate.”

Betty shots him a glare before putting on the nicest smile and shaking hands with the dazzled boy. Jughead knows neither of them missed the lack of any detail with Betty’s introduction.

“Hi,” Harvey says. He smiles, widely, and the whole room feels lighter. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Betty doesn’t look at Jughead when she says, “Doubt it.”

Harvey pretends not to notice. “Well—“

“Betty’s on her way home,” interjects Jughead, voice definite. “She should get going soon and we’ll talk later, all right?”

He doesn’t allow either of them to protest as he grabs her bag and ushers her out of the apartment. They’re a little clumsy and feeling her skin beneath his fingertips as he holds her arm feels different than he’s used to and he realizes he can’t stop making the comparisons of then and now.

Except he’s decided there will be no now with Betty.

She’s shivering once they’re out of the building, standing on the winter cold. It’s not snowing—hasn’t been in a while—but it looks like it might.

“I’ll call you a cab,” Jughead tells her.

“I can call my own cab, thank you. You don’t have to be so . . . “

“So what, huh, Betty?” Jughead presses thumbs against his temples and looks away, shuddering. He forgot to take a jacket or a coat or something and now he’s angry and annoyed and irritated and nearly arguing with his ex whom he hadn’t seen in five years. “I don’t want to do this today. Or anytime, really.”

“Do what? I wasn’t aware we were doing anything, really.”

He doesn’t want to look at her. “Damn it, Betty. Get your own cab, I’m going back.”

“Jughead—“

He looks at her with all the anger and irritation and five years of bottled up feelings directed at her. His hands are in his pockets and he’s shivering and damn cold but he waits to hear what she has to say. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he owes her at least that much.

Betty smiles at him; it’s the pity, the sad smile she would sometimes give him when he first told her about his homelessness as a fifteen year-old. “I don’t think you should do the column. You can do more than that.”

“You have no idea what I can do,” he tells her and with that, he’s gone.

Not one part of him regrets it. There’s only so much he can allow himself with his past and he’s already crossed the line, more than once.

Harvey’s sitting on the sofa when he gets back into the apartment, sketching something into his notebook. His head raises when he hears Jughead fumbling with the stuff he needs, but looks away when Jughead shakes his head.

In a quick trip to his bedroom, he takes the bandages, several bottles of water and sports shorts, stuffing it all in a bag. The fingerless gloves are still on his hands and he’s hurrying all too much, constantly forgetting the additional things he needs to take, because he’d planned his evening and it should’ve gone way differently.

“I’ll be back late,” Jughead informs Harvey on his way out. “Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t get beaten up,” Harvey retorts.

Jughead nods, because they both know Harvey will wait up and Jughead will get beaten up.

He’s firm on his feet when he leaves the building. The air is chilly and it’s several degrees below zero, but he hardly notices any of it. There is a feeling between his shoulder blades, sharp and gnawing at his every step and he can’t shake it off. It’s a different kind of warmth that spreads all the way to the tips of his fingers and his arms are buzzing with a hunger he can’t put in words.

There are days when he wishes he has it different and there are days like these, when he knows he wouldn’t have it any way at all if it had it different.

Harvey knows a little, but doesn’t understand. Toni doesn’t know, but she would understand. Victoria and Midge and Jeff neither know nor would understand.

There is nobody else.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Jughead’s senses are alert on a familiar way. His hands and fingers now almost throbbing with desire tense and the hunger in his back opens its jaws. He turns around and sees no one, but he knows they’re there.

He says nothing. He swings the bag over his shoulders and steadies it at his back and he wishes he had enough self-control not to enjoy this.

It’s quiet. His steps are quiet, too, and not a sound escapes him as he walks where he came from.

Someone is following him.

The alley he enters is lit by a street light way ahead and most of it is left in the dark, succumbing to a dread Jughead knows he should be feeling instead. But this is a different version to him than the one who was paranoid at Midge’s all those months ago – that was F. Jones, and this is Jughead.

This Jughead is moulded by the streets of New York, by murders and lies of Riverdale, and horrors of his own; this Jughead is clad of resentment and rage, softly boiling for the past five years.

This Jughead is dangerous. And that Jughead nearly throws the small figure that’s been following him on the ground. Only in the last moment does he realize it’s none other than Betty.

He pauses, for a moment. Makes the decision in the split of the next.

“What the fuck were you thinking, following me?” His shoulders are stiff and he’s holding Betty for her shoulders, forcing her to take steps backwards until her back collide with the hard wall. “Don’t you have fucking common sense left in your head?”

She swallows loudly and tries to shake his hands off, but fails. He can’t see her face but he doesn’t have to – if she’s anything like she used to be, then he’s glaring at her with lips pressed tight and her chin held high, looking danger straight in the eyes.

It’s not much of a surprise for him to realize he’s the danger.

“You’re up to something, Jughead,” she states. Her voice is unsteady and cold, but there is no affection in it. “I know you’re hiding something from me.”

His eyes close and flutter. He takes in a deep breath and swallows the first words that come to his mind, only looking back at her when he’s ready. “Don’t you think there might be a reason why I’m not telling you things? Why I don’t talk to you?”

“You’re just doing the same thing you alwa—”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I’m doing!” A shudder runs through his bones and he’s pressing her against the wall, gentleness gone with the wind. He’s rough and he’s angry and he needs her to see it. “I’m done with you, Betty. I left Riverdale and I left my old life and I don’t need you in this one, too. What I’m doing is my fucking business and keep your nose the hell out of it because you don’t belong here anymore. Follow me again and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen another time, Betts. We’ve been done for a long time and now you’re just a stranger awfully interested in my life and I don’t like a bit of that. So would you kindly back the fuck off and let me live without you sniffing around, or do I need to make you do it? Because—”

Someone walks by, on the main road, and doesn’t look into the alley. The two grow silent but neither look around and Jughead holds her still, his hands shaking just a little and his heart threatening to cut through his ribcage.

His eyes got used to the dark and he sees her better now. She’s glaring at him in a way he’s not used to and he knows he was wrong – she’s almost nothing like the girl he left in Riverdale.

Her edges aren’t soft anymore, just like his have sharpened in the past three years.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he growls. “I’m done playing nice.”

Betty pushes him away and he lets her. Her braid is a mess and her coat must be smudged, but she looks astonishing; she looks like the bad side of herself she never let him see. In the briefest of heartbeat-long moments, Jughead Jones recognizes the extensity of the persona Betty Cooper has been hiding for a very, very long time.

She doesn’t hesitate when she says: “You’re a fucking son of a bitch.”

Jughead doesn’t blink. “Don’t follow me.”

“You’re an asshole and a moron and nothing like you used to be.”

“Welcome to the real world, Betts. People are pieces of shit.”

She pushes him. “I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“Good.”

“I hate you.”

The words sting but he takes them like he should – with a grim smile. “Back at you, blondie.”

She slaps him. Hard, right across the cheek. It stings just as much as the words did but this one he deserves even more. She’s stronger than before, firmer, harder and a part of him is proud to see life has hardened her in all the ways it should have, only a little less than going overboard like it did with him.

She takes a step back, shoots him another glare and turns on her heel. He watches her go out of the alley and the opposite direction of where they were going before, and he can’t help but notice something different tugs at him now – some part of him that lay dormant deep within him before he arrived to New York.

Jughead is back on his way in no time. He arrives ten minutes late, but nobody has anything to say about that and he’s glad. His arms are still throbbing and he can’t keep his fingers still – wrapping the bandages around them and throwing the first punch at the boxing bag in the changing room feels riveting.

Freeing.

Minutes later, his punch lands into the stomach of a guy almost twice his size and opens the match. Jughead pumps to the rhythm of people shouting his name and blood in his ears is a song he’s become addicted to – each and every muscle in his body is active as he throws one punch after another, dodging and smirking and unleashing the hunger between his shoulder blades when his nose gets broken.

He’s a monster and he adores it.

The crowd is a blur of colours and smudges that represent people. Their voices are an unwavering sea of muffled sounds unable to fully get through the barrier he’s put himself in. What he sees is a ring he’s bound by and a guy who just took a quick step back upon knocking on Jughead’s nose. His nose is throbbing and the guy looks like a blotch of black to him – like a Rorschach test he’s bound to fail. He looks like Betty’s face when Jughead spat those words at her and his cheek is pulsating underneath her touch again.

Jughead shivers and puts his hands down, staring at his opponent. Every part of him feels like its vibrating and he stretches his neck, moves his fingers and targets. Targets.

Lunges.

It doesn’t last long after that. The room smells like sweat and blood and Jughead’s bandages are ripped, along with a part of skin below his right eye. He spits on the ground and a little bit of blood comes out, so he wipes it. He wipes his nose with a tissue and every other injured area he can see.

His opponent—Jughead learned his name is, ironically, Rorschach—is lying unconscious beneath his feet. He’s in a much worse state, with several ribs bound to be broken, nose out of its place, swollen eye and possible internal bleeding in his stomach from the time he hit Jughead a little bit too hard and earned himself a knee in the stomach.

Someone jumps into the ring. Jughead registers that people are cheering and booing, and giving each other money.

The person pushes him. “You could’ve fuckin’ killed him.”

“He could’ve handed over the match,” Jughead retorts. He stands still even though the guy tries to push him again; all that bothered him since Betty’s arrival that evening was gone and the monster perished somewhere along the punches. “He’s a good fighter and it was a fair fight.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare say it was a fair fight,” the guy tells him. He’s point a finger at Jughead, not having glanced up the unconscious fighter even once – something that makes Jughead doubt he was the problem. “He was barely standing on his feet and he couldn’t fight anymore—”

“That’s when people hand over, dude. If he thought he couldn’t, he would’ve handed over or had his ass kicked because of his pride,” Jughead says. His nose starts bleeding again so he puts the tissue below it, pressing lightly and trying not to wince at the pain. “It’s not my problem you bet on the wrong guy.”

The guy lunges and misses. Jughead doesn’t, so there’s three men with bloodied noses in the ring.

Jughead hands him a clean tissue. “Take this and fuck off.”

Without another word, he walks out of the ring. He’s limping a little, but he figures it’s not bad enough to call Harvey for a ride, and he has Oxycodone in his bag. Nearly every part of his body is in some amount of pain, but the severest is his head, throbbing with each step he takes.

Some people pat him on the back, thinking him for earning them money. Jughead ignores them and he ignores the ones pushing him for making them lose their money; those who come to compliment him on his fighting he thanks, and those who ask him how he’s doing he lies to.

It’s been three years. He’s become a pro in this.

One of the guys who helped out with the organisation of the events walks up to him and immediately takes hold of his arm. Jughead leans into him and McAdams helps him get to the changing room.

“You stink,” McAdams tells him. “You were good today.”

McAdams sits on one of the benches and plays with Jughead’s spare pair of bandages. The fighter glances at his could-be-called-coach, taking a shower gel and a towel from his bag. He goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. The water is hot and it burns, especially where he got hit, and he enjoys it more than he should. With closed eyes, he pretends what he’s feeling aren’t boxing injuries and that his knuckles aren’t bloodied from doing the same to someone else.

He thinks about water. How much he would love it to fill the entire bathroom and swim in it for a while; how he’d feel like a little baby, safe and floating and nothing would matter. No Riverdale, no New York, nothing.

He thinks about it but turns off the shower and the moment is gone.

With just a towel wrapped around him, Jughead enters the changing room. McAdams is still there, lying on a bench and humming to himself, not batting an eye to him. Minutes later, Jughead’s ready to go.

McAdams hands him a water bottle and Oxycodone. Doesn’t ask where he got it, because questions aren’t a concept around here.

Jughead takes it. It hurts his throat and he knows he’ll vomit later, but it’ll be worth it if the pain lessens.

“You can’t walk like this,” says McAdams. “Let me give you a lift.”

“No.”

“I’m your friend.”

“You’re not.” Jughead puts the dirty clothes into the bag and zips it, pulling on his coat. As soon as the bag’s over his shoulders, he’s out the door, with McAdams behind him and a little softer limp beneath him. “I can walk.”

McAdams puts a hand on his shoulder. Jughead clenches his teeth and shakes it off, but all McAdams does is glare at him. “I’ve know you for ages and I know nothing about you.”

Most of the people are gone by now, as Jughead was the last match of the day. He guesses the earlier ones weren’t as entertaining – the best on the repertoire is usually saved for the last. Some of those who stay are a part of the organisation and are cleaning up, and Jughead nods at the bouncer who’s moping the floor.

He and McAdams arrive to the booth near the entrance. It’s big enough for two men to comfortably sit in, but only one is here today and he’s grinning at Jughead.

“Two grand,” says Delgado. He hands the money through the hole in the glass and Jughead takes it.

He counts the numbers. It’s two thousand dollars. He puts it in his bag and looks at Delgado with tense shoulders and a mathematical problem running inside his mind. Delgado notices something’s up but waits for Jughead to say it, and Jughead feels a strong wave of hatred for the man.

He’s barely in his thirties, but could easily pass for a Godfather cast member.

“I thought it’d be seven grand,” Jughead tells him.

“They took the rest.”

Jughead nods. If they took the rest, then there’s no arguing.

He looks to his left but McAdams is gone and he breathes a sigh of relief. With Delgado he parts with a nod and before anyone else can jump him up, he’s out of the basement.

The building his little fight club is situated in is a corporate one, ran by the same guy who runs the club. It’s massive and well respected and as much as he’d like to call it a farce, he knows the guy’s successful both legally and illegally. Unlike him, Jughead can only wish to be as successful legally as he is illegally.

 It takes him a little over an hour to get home. Oxycodone gave him a lift and he’s feeling all right, but he’s still himself enough to know he can’t push over his limits – so he walks a little slower, even though he could probably walk even faster.

It’s a drug, Jughead knows it, and he can’t think—everything is a little hazy—but he thinks he once worried he was getting addicted to it. To say it’s not a lovely feeling being on it would be a lie and he knows it, because any state where his past and his present and his potential future doesn’t cause him as much anxiety as it always does is a blissful state he would love to remain in forever.

He takes Oxycodone as little as he can. Sometimes, it’s what he depends on to survive.

With two grand in his bag and a drug in his bloodstream, Jughead stops at the corner where he finds some small newsstand. He pretends to check the offer for a couple of seconds, while he’s really waiting for his head to stop spinning so he can figure out what the hell he’s seeing.

“Malboro red,” Jughead says. Or, slurs.

The guy behind the stand eyes him up and down, probably staring at his broken nose or cut beneath his eye or some other spot where he got fucked up. Jughead waits there and eventually, he gets his cigarettes scan and pays for them with a hundred-dollar bill.

 The guy raises his eyebrows.

Jughead sighs. Looks around. “And Snickers, too.”

Something chimes.

“Anything else?”

“And . . . a bottle of Jack Daniels.” It’s a split moment decision, just one of many he does today. “I know you sell it.”

“You over twenty-one?”

“Just give me the goddamn whiskey, man.”

The guy mutters something Jughead doesn’t catch and crouches, then comes back with two bottles of Jack Daniels. When Jughead raises his eyebrows at him, he says: “You look like you’re going through some ‘ruff time, man. One’s not gonna be ‘nuff.”

“Thanks.”

About ten minutes later, he’s home. He unlocks the front door with his key and it takes him nearly as long to get to the apartment, but he’s still standing on his feet when Harvey opens the door so he thinks he’s just all right.

“Jesus Christ,” Harvey says.

Jughead staggers forward, past Harvey, and into the apartment. He sets the untouched alcohol on the bar and plops down into one of the chairs, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth and his bag beside his feet.

“You look like shit,” Harvey says. He leaves and comes back a minute later with the medical equipment they have at the ready. Sitting down on the nearest chair, Harvey pulls himself closer to Jughead and looks at his face. “Are you going to smoke?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

That was what Harvey needed to hear, so he takes the cigarette out of Jughead’s mouth and places it on the bar, because Jughead isn’t in the state to do it himself.

Through his a little less hazy vision and a little more pain, Jughead can see Harvey was waiting for him. There are dark circles beneath his eyes and the entire living room smells like he’s had at least two cups of coffee and a shit ton of paint whose smell he can’t get rid of even by opening all the windows. His hair is tousled, too, and he’s wearing a sweater and sweatpants instead of pyjamas. But he’s wide awake – or at least he became wide awake upon seeing what state Jughead came home in.

“Take off your clothes,” demands Harvey. His voice sound heavy and they both know neither of them wants to do this.

Jughead feels like he should make a joke about this, but his brain is too preoccupied with trying to ignore what’s happening to his body. He obliges, takes his shirt off with his friend’s help and tries not to wince every time he touches a part of skin that’s anything but pale beige.

Harvey lets out a string of swears which only get more creative and intense in pronunciation when Jughead takes off his pants.

Soft laugh comes from the fighter. “Now I’m not that different than one of your canvases, eh?”

Harvey clenches his jaw and gives Jughead a long, somewhat significant look he can’t decipher. “Are you high?”

“No, just a little buzzed. I’m on Oxycodone. As much as I needed to get me through the night,” Jughead says – or at least he thinks that what he says. It comes out slurred and not entirely comprehensible, but he’s sure Harvey gets the gist.

He always does.

When Harvey warms up his fingers and rubs Jughead’s bruises with some lotion or cream or whatever it is he uses to soothe the pain and make them heal faster, Jughead straightens his back. It hurts a little and he clenches his teeth, then relaxed them and says: “I got you some booze.”

A moment of silence passes, then Harvey takes another amount of lotion and applies it to Jughead’s side, right around the kidneys. “You sure you don’t have internal bleeding?”

“Yes. It doesn’t feel like that.”

“It’s pretty bad, though.”

“We’re going to need booze, Harvey. You can’t stitch me up if your hands are shaking.”

“What you need to do is go to the damn hospital, for once.”

Jughead shifts to the right and Harvey starts applying the lotion to the lower part of his back; it’s getting cold and hurts a little, but Jughead keeps mum about it. “They’d ask too many questions.”

“Jones, are you even aware of what kind of mess you are right now?”

With closed eyes, Jughead goes back to the blissful moments under the shower and wonders if he’s ever going to feel the pain the same way – like something that needs fixing, and not something that proves to him he’s still alive and kicking and helping. He recalls the hot water gliding down his body as he examined his injuries, with tears in his eyes every time he’d discover a new one and a new sting of pain would follow.

It’s just a list to him and he says it like that. “Entire left side is covered in bruises and the biggest one is a perfect shape of my opponent’s knee. My ribs hurt just a little, so they’re not broken. I’ll need stitches on my nose when you fix it, and stitches below my eye. My right ankle isn’t doing so well, I twisted it but I can still walk so it’s good. The skin on my knuckles ripped open and I’ll need to wear a different kind of bandages to heal it, but nothing I’m not used to. My back hurts, though, I couldn’t see that, but I think it’s just a massive bruise. Nothing cracked, there’s just one cut on my thigh that might need stitches, it’s quite deep, but that’s it. Nothing cracked. Nothing is irreparable.”

Harvey shakes his head and closes the tube, then puts it away. He looks defeated, or disappointed, or something third – Jughead’s world is now getting a little hazy from the pain he’s endured, and his thoughts are starting to lose any string of sense.

Soft hands touch his face, push his hair back. The hands are sticky, but it’s him who’s sweating.

“Jones, I wasn’t talking about that mess.”

Normal Jughead would understand the implications of this, he’s aware of that, but he barely knows what’s two and two – he might’ve gotten a concussion. Or not, hopefully, because he hasn’t vomited.

“What mess, then?”

Harvey’s lips tighter and eyes soften; he doesn’t want to say it. “I was talking about Betty.” He waits for a reaction and when none comes, he continues, “She came by about half an hour after you left. Told me what just happened between the two of you and told me to tell you to answer her calls. You left your phone at home and I didn’t tell her that, but she’s been texting you several times per hour.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” slurs Jughead. “And I don’t want to talk about her.”

“You do care and you need to talk, Jones,” Harvey tells him, firm and soft at the same time. “I know you’re hellbent on forgetting your past and all that, but she’s here now and it doesn’t look like she’s going to leave without answers.”

“Her answers are to fuck off and leave me alone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Harvey says, “and I don’t think you do, either.”

“I do,” Jughead says.

Then he thinks about it and it doesn’t take a psychic or a CIA agent to tell that’s a blatant, horrible lie. But it’s one he would give everything to believe in and for the last five years, he’s almost managed to accomplish it. Day by day and week by week eventually turned into year by year where he was becoming Forsythe Jones known as Jones more than he ever was Jughead Jones known as Jughead. But some parts of him will never die, and some ideas will never be extinguished, and he will always, even the littlest of bits, be a Jughead more than he could be a Jones.

It’s a lie and he’s a liar and that’s the truth he’s trying to make Betty see. He’d prefer to live a miserable life without her than drag her into this and get himself through everything he’s trying so hard to forget.

“My life doesn’t have a place for her,” he says quietly.

Resignation. That’s the only thing he feels before Harvey gives him a shot of Jack Daniels, and takes one for himself.

They spend the rest of the night patching him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but here's a twice as long chapter as my way of apologizing for that. If you want to check out more of my content (not fanfiction), find me on Wattpad as @vindorous. Please leave a comment below if you liked it or not, because those mean the world to me (and make it likelier this will updated soon!)


	4. iv. what is left but a broken man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, morning comes with Betty – figuratively and literally.

WAKING UP IS always the worst. It’s a lengthy process even when he isn’t beaten and battered and bruised, awfully hungover from drinking the pain away the night before, and suffering from aftereffects of Oxycodone.

This morning, his ears are ringing. His eyelids flutter but he doesn’t open them. Through them, he can see the pale brown of his walls—Harvey’s choice—reflecting orange in the sunlight that usually wakes him every day. It doesn’t feel warm, like other days, or calming like it usually does after a fight.

Or familiar, either.

His brain is a little hazy. His thoughts are scattered, floating somewhere at the edge of his mind; he can smell pancakes, but it mixes with the stench of medicinal alcohol that must be coming off of him. He knows it’s him because even though he hasn’t moved yet, the soft fabric of the duvet Harvey got him for his last birthday feels like knives on his skin.

He’s used to this being calming. If it hurts, it means he’s survived and has money to pay off the rent with. If orange is on his eyelids, he’s waking up to a new day and to a period where he needn’t be a beast for a while.

This time, morning comes with Betty – figuratively and literally.

Because when he opens his eyes, she’s standing in his room with hands crossed on her chest and her hair let down.

Jughead closes his eyes. She’s still there when he opens them.

“Good morning, _Jones_.”

He says nothing.

She looks like she’s had some time to think about what happened yesterday. Her face is still stern and angry, but it feels like she has the higher ground this time, considering Jughead is close to rendered immobile. In a way, she looks awfully funny to his fuzzy brain and hazy vision – she’s angry, yes, but she’s wearing a coat even though it’s nearly boiling in his room—Harvey always looks after him after fights—and her posture may be spelling d a n g e r and t r o u b l e, but those aren’t the terms he ties to her.

“I said good morning,” she says. “You’re the host here.”

Jughead inhales deeply and regrets it the same moment. His ribs are about to crack and he moves, just slightly, but enough to be reminded of the bruise on his back. He knows she’s watching his every move, analysing it, so he keeps on a poker face.

Not exactly a poker face. It’s probably closer to a ‘get the hell out of my face’ face.

“And you’re an intruder, so I don’t see any needs for pleasantries.” His voice sounds deeper and muffled and he wonders if he and Harvey maybe misdiagnosed him yesterday – maybe he did have a concussion.

“Jughead,” says Betty, “why is your nose broken? Why does your entire face look like someone threw you under a bus?”

Short chuckle passes his lips, its sound twisted. _That explains it_ , he thinks.

The rest of his face might be mangled, too, covered in a palette Harvey could call ‘Jughead’s bruises after a mystery night’, but he doesn’t know. Truth be told, he’s never too eager to look at himself in the mirror first thing in the morning.

Harvey takes care of his bruises – paints over them. Jughead isn’t used to someone else seeing him at his worst.

“Jughead. Tell me what happened.”

He shoots a glare her way. Winces at the movement. “This isn’t an interview.”

It’s not the words that hurt. It’s the resolute tone of his voice and his stone-cold expression that do. He sees it on her face for a flash, and he sees it when her hands ball up in fists and her knuckles pale.

Sometimes inside him tightens. He tells himself it’s not his problem anymore.

Betty starts talking, at that moment. It goes from quiet rage about his behaviour and comparison to the Jughead she used to know, to telling him how much of an asshole he is to her. That part isn’t quiet and he knows Harvey hears it.

The same Harvey who let her in – not even Betty could break into their apartment.

Even if Jughead wanted to listen, he couldn’t. His ears are still ringing and Betty’s rising tone irritates them even more – when he pushed himself against the wall and raises himself into a seating position, with his duvet below his chin, the ringing gets so bad he hear absolutely nothing.

Panic creeps in soon afterwards. His eyes widen but he closes them and when his breathing begins speeding up, he forces himself to think in a bar going up and going down with how his breathing should be. It’s not a panic attack. He’s fighting it off. But he can’t hear anything and his entire head is pulsating and he thinks, _it’s so much worse than I thought_.

He can’t recall half of the match.

It’s not panic. He’s not panicking. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing, and the ringing doesn’t scare him.

He doesn’t notice Betty stopped talking because he can’t hear it.

“Jughead.” Her voice is distant and distorted, but he focuses on it through the ringing. It reminds him of—“What is wrong? Are you okay?”

Against his will, he wants her to talk. He needs to concentrate on any sound other than the ringing in his ears because the more aware of it he is, the louder it becomes. It’s not just a sound – he feels it, in every badly-healed and injured bone in his body.

And he’s got his fair share of those.

“Jughead, I didn’t meant to—“

No. Her apologetic voice is worse than any ringing he could possibly endure.

“Stop being a nuisance.” He removes the duvet and he knows she can see the palette from his face extends to the rest of his body that isn’t covered by his sleepwear. “I can’t listen to you right now. Show some respect and let me change in peace.”

“I have _no_ respect for the person you’ve become,” she says.

Betty leaves the room and slams the door shut—he doesn’t think it was on purpose—and he has the feeling neither of them is keen on truth today.

Truth has always been an awful thing.

When they were younger and bolder and thinking they were detectives or heroes or something like that, they sought it. They craved it, went to greater lengths than they should’ve to obtain it, getting burned in the process. Secrets they kept from one another ruined them – coming clean sometimes fixed things, sometimes made it worse.

Secrets are all Jughead’s got for her. No truth, not anymore. No chances to fix things. No way to patch up what he buried years ago.

Begrudgingly, he pushes himself off the wall. Every inch of his body aches as he finds some sweatpants and an old sweater, but he’s not sure if it’s the beating, the hangover or something else.

When a shaky breath escapes him, he admits to himself that the way this day has begun is far from tolerable, but maybe for the best. He just needs to play the part. Keep the girl at bay. Keep Harvey in the dark.

The room is still orange when he opens the window without looking at his reflection. Cold breeze results in a strong shiver and he lets the air in the room shift for a while before closing the window – and this time, he can’t help but look.

His jaw clenches.

“Fuck.”

Jughead is wearing only shorts now and the rest of him exposed to sight – Betty’s reaction seems reasonable now. He’s bandaged up in places on his arms, his torso, right below the shorts and where he’s not covered in cloth, he’s covered in colour. His nose very visibly broken and in healing, lips swollen and there are about three massive bruises on his face, including one that covers nearly all the skin around his left eye.

He doesn’t recall receiving a beating of this intensity. The problem with his matches—

“I don’t remember.”

The boy in the reflection hardens. He straightens his shoulders and the pained expression is gone and strength is back in his body. He looks angry. Frightening.

_Maybe this will be enough._

He doesn’t look back at the window. There’s no mirror in the room, so when he gets dressed, he has no idea what he looks like. He feels like the boy from the glass – the one who fights in matches, not write stories.

The boy who wears fingerless gloves to prevent people from seeing the scars and scabs and bruises on his knuckles.

About five minutes since Betty left his bedroom, Jughead finds her eating pancakes with Harvey.

His roommate looks up to him. “Good morning, Jones. You look better.”

“I feel better.” There’s an empty seat at the counter—next to Betty—and he sits down. “The entire apartment smells like pancakes. It’s been a while since it smelled this good.”

“Oh, shut up.” Harvey places a plate with a pancake before him, smiling just a little. “You could learn to make them yourself.”

“Nah. Too much work.”

Next to him, Betty squirms and lets out a chuckle. “You still can’t make pancakes?”

“Harvey, what’s the plan for today?”

There’s a moment of silence. Harvey, the kind person he is, doesn’t know whether he should address Jughead’s choice to pretend Betty isn’t there or simply answer the question. It’s a funny look on him – his hands are perfectly still and he’s good at hiding it, but his face tells on him.

It’s the eyes, Jughead thinks. With Harvey, the truth is always in the eyes.

Right now, they’re looking at the ground. A little, evil part of Jughead hopes he’s realizing what he did by letting Betty, but another part of him just wants this to be over already. No awkwardness, no Betty, just him, pancakes and Harvey.

“Nothing special,” Harvey answers. He doesn’t look at either of them. “I’m going to the gallery, see if there’s any changes and I might go see Victoria at work.”

“You’re going to Midge’s?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead says. He takes a bite of his pancake—it’s better than he expected it to be—and thinks about what plans he might have today. “I might go see Midge. It’s been a while.”

Harvey nods.

Well, there’s that. Jughead can no longer keep a normal conversation while pretending his ex-girlfriend isn’t sitting right next to him, murdering a pancake with her fork.

He doesn’t look at her – he still sees her out of the corner of his eye. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, but a few strands are falling out anyway.

“You could visit Archie,” she says. “He’s in Manhattan.”

Jughead’s jaw clenches. He closes his eyes, for a moment, and relaxes. His body is aching more than before now that he needs to consciously control it from breaking apart – from doing what he instinct is telling him to.

Even Harvey knows something is wrong.

“You know what, I’m not really that hungry.” Jughead pushes his plate away and leaves the counter, plopping down onto the couch.

It’s a great couch, like anything else they have in the apartment. Massive, comfortable and filled with cushions for Victoria. In front of him is a massive TV and next to it are two massive paintings Harvey got a the gallery. He’s never been able to tell what they’re supposed to represent and it’s some kind of modern art, one that Jughead doesn’t understand. They look different to him every day, one in shades of red and the other in blue.

Today, they look like blood and bruises and battered flesh.

Or, like Archie’s hair and the coldness of their goodbye.

Betty sits down next to him. “He’s asked about you. He – he wants to see you, Jughead. He misses—”

“Harvey, you can bring Victoria home tonight, if you want.” Jughead’s voice is loud and he knows Harvey won’t be able to pretend he doesn’t hear. And neither will Betty. “I won’t be sleeping here.”

“Sure,” comes the reply. “Where will you be?”

Jughead watches Harvey wash the dishes. He does it delicately, in an intensely Harvey manner – touching every plate as if it were made of gold, or created by God himself.

He doesn’t believe in God. Neither of them do. But sometimes, Jughead thinks there is some small piece of God in moments when he watches Harvey do something mundane – it feels like it’s meant to be, like he’s supposed to be doing that exact thing and that’s all there is. It might be fate, or destiny, or some other bullshit Jughead’s never believed in.

Where will he be? No idea. Where will he go? Even less idea. He might go with Midge, ask for shelter, or he might get drunk and pass out in some random bar, or he might go for a fight even though every inch of him hurts, or he might not go to sleep at all.

Just wander. Until the sun is out. Until he is so tired he doesn’t know who he is. Until Betty is gone and Archie is gone and all his problems are gone. Until he’s just a face in the crowd he doesn’t recognize.

“It’s Midge’s boyfriend’s birthday. She invited me to come, so I’ll be there,” he says.

It’s not a lie. It’s a shielded truth, much like anything else with Jughead these days.

“Don’t stay up late,” Harvey says.

Jughead grins. “Sure, mom.”

“Jughead, I need to talk to you.”

He turns away from Betty. Turns on the TV.

“What happened to you?”

Something silly is playing. Looney Tunes, he thinks. He hasn’t seen that in a while. Harvey is still doing the dishes and he’s doing it loudly, and Jughead is thankful. He’s probably feeling guilty about letting Betty in.

Jughead is thinking fast.  Too fast. This is why he doesn’t want Betty around. Especially not when he can feel his mind going to places it should stay away from. Especially not when he’s losing the control he’s worked so far on.

And her, being here, after all these years, is a little delicious cherry on top.

His body hurts. Aches.

“We need to talk,” he hears Betty say. “You can’t keep ignoring him. Harvey – tell him something, please!”

With his eyes fixed on the television screen and the cartoon playing, Jughead doesn’t see Harvey’s reaction. There’s no desperation in Betty’s voice yet, for one, and she hasn’t tried physically forcing him to look at her. He’s still got time to clear up his head and deal with her.

Back in the kitchen part of the living room, some dishes clatter. Harvey cusses. “I don’t think it’s my job, Betty. It’s – it’s _rude_ , that’s for sure,” he directs at Jughead, “but maybe there’s a reason why he’s not talking to you.”

“No, there isn’t,” Betty fires back. “He thinks there is, but he’s just being an asshole.”

To this, Harvey doesn’t offer an answer. Jughead thinks about it—doesn’t a silence say more than words?—but thinking it’s anything would be pointless. It’s Harvey, after all, and Harvey’s about as close to a human version of an angel as it gets.

Jughead drapes his legs over the part of the couch next to him, turning his back to Betty. With the remote in his lap, he feels tired and exhausted and really, just wants to sleep. It’s paining him more than it should to pretend his cells aren’t experiencing a meltdown at anything he does.

Once Betty leaves, the charade will end.

He feels her heat beside her. She’s sitting like she always does – one leg over another, hands politely on her knees with blonde baby hairs tucked behind her ears. He doesn’t need to see her to know that.

Betty Cooper is as predictable as he isn’t.

“What _happened_ to you?” he hears her ask. “You look like you’ve taken a beating.”

He changes the program. Looney Tunes is becoming boring.

“You’re not accomplishing anything by pretending I’m not here.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Harvey walk out of the room. Quick glance at the clock beneath the television – it’s just past ten and he’s gone out to get the groceries for the day. They ran out of milk just yesterday.

Harvey’s leaving exposes him to Betty’s full extent of emotions.

She’s predictable, he thinks. She’ll start talking about thirty seconds after Harvey closes the door and it will go from louder to softer, until she’ll be out of words. She’ll end up teary.

He thinks he knows her. But he turns around and Betty is neither sitting how he thought she would nor paying any attention to him whatsoever.

Her hair is still let down. The baby hairs are covering nearly half of her face, blond and curlier than he remembers. Her legs are just like his, draped over the couch, and her hand is slung over the headrest in a manner he’s never seen it. Betty looks straight ahead, watching whichever channel is currently playing on the television, but it doesn’t feel like she’s really there.

Jughead is still suffering from yesterday. It wouldn’t surprise him to realize this is a dream because this isn’t the Betty he used to love.

“I’ve been through shit, Betty.” His voice is quiet and he _needs_ to look away from her, but doesn’t. “I barely recognize you anymore. You don’t like who I’ve become. Whom are we fooling? We don’t know each other. Not after all this time.”

Betty looks at him. He can’t decipher the look on her face. It brings a grin, somewhere deep within him but doesn’t reach the surface – she’s learned to control her body.

He relaxes against the couch. Closes his eyes. Laughs, dryly. “We’re just strangers, Betty. What we had – it doesn’t mean _shit_ anymore. You getting into my house the morning after I told you off demanding answers like it’s your right to know? Newsflash, Cooper - _it’s not._ You’re not welcome here. I don’t know what you’re doing here after yesterday.”

“I’ve missed you,” whispers Betty.

Jughead looks at her. There are tears in her eyes and her hands are trembling, but he doesn’t let it get to him.

She’s not his problem anymore.

“I didn’t.” Silence follows and he knows she’s letting the words sink in, just as he knows they never truly will. “I don’t even know what you think you’re doing here. Get out.”

“Jughead—”

“It’s _Jones,_ in case you haven’t been paying attention,” he spits out. “I haven’t been Jughead for a very long time and you need to get that inside your thick skull.”

Now, he’s standing on his feet with fingers curled up in fists and something boiling inside him. He’s still hurting and every louder word that leaves his mouth is a thunder inside his brain. Resting his entire weight on his feet brings back yesterday’s painful memories right below the surface and this entire thing is becoming a little too much.

Now, he’s angry.

But so is Betty.

“Get your head out of your ass, Jughead.” She’s still sitting, but that doesn’t diminish the power in her eyes. “Your not fifteen anymore, thinking you’re some weirdo that doesn’t fit in. When I came for you, I wasn’t trying to get back with you. Do you think I’d forgive you like that? No, I wanted to see if you’re still the same.”

“I’m not.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a fucking piece of shit, that’s what you are. The same piece of shit that left and never looked back.”

She is standing and this is war.

Her hair is a golden mess, with circles under her eyes that make her look like a fury. His own, personal vengeance and ruination. He’s seen many iterations of the furies but at this very moment, the fired-up version of his ex-girlfriend might be the closest to their true form.   


Jughead isn’t afraid of her. He’ll never be afraid of Betty. But he sees something inside her that was pushed far deeper when they were together. The thing that makes her resemble a fury.

The thing he sees in his own eyes after a match.

He takes a deep breath.

“I never wanted to see you again. I still don’t.”

Betty’s lips are thin, hands violently pushing hair back behind her ears. She’s on edge. “Is this really what you’re telling yourself? That now you’re a big boy, an adult, capable of taking care of yourself? That you can just throw away everything you spent eighteen years of your life building? _Grow up.”_

 _“_ You have no right to be telling me that,” Jughead fires back. His voice is still calm and cold like hers, but his is collected. He’s been preparing for this, one way or another. “You tell me you hate me, that I’m a fucking asshole, but you still try, over and over again, to make me admit that I - what, still love you? Is that what you want? Are you, after all these years, still craving for attention _so badly_?”

“Don’t you—”

“I might be an asshole, but you’re downright fucking pathetic.”

Her hands are balled up in fists, but not in the way he’s used to seeing them. This is just how he does it before breaking someone’s jaw. And she’s got the look to go with it – the enraged, violent and ferocious beast inside her.

But that’s all she does.

“At least I have some dignity left.”

Jughead steps back. Enough to make space for her to walk away with whatever dignity she thinks she has left. He holds his chin high and stares right back at her, careful not to move any muscle in his body. “You are not welcome in my life.”

She opens her mouth but closes them. Twice. Her chin is high and pride is more than obvious with her shoulders pushed back and perfect posture, like a little queen she is.

She is ferocious when she passes by him effortlessly not touching him. And she leaves just like that, without so much as looking back.

Jughead closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be part one of the chapter, but it can stand on its own so i decided to post it instead because i have no idea when i'd get to write the second part. sorry for the long wait and thank you for all the lovely comments, nearly all of them made me cry <3

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read more by me, I have few other Riverdale fics on my account. There's also several fics (not published here) on my tumblr account, @riverdalefiction where you can also request a fic.


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